


Taking the Ocean

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Write me a song."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savannamae17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savannamae17/gifts).



> For [savannamae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/savannamae17), who said, "Do something with [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Efg1h0EzLeE)."

* * *

 

He gets back either late or early, but Jeff was fired a month ago, and hasn’t picked anything else up so there’s no reason to care. Their shitty after-midnight shows in tiny, dark clubs run into the small hours, get them home at two, or three, or four, or not at all. There’s a mattress on the floor where they crash and try to sleep days away, curtains pulled against the light, but Mike’s sprawled, flat on his back, on the floor instead. Probably because it's sticky hot, and AC is just a dream. There's trails through the dust on the uneven floor boards where his arms have made paths, snow angel-like, in the dust. His guitar rests flat on his chest. 

Jeff circles once, snags the wine bottle on the counter, and pulls the cork free with his teeth. He wheels in closer, unsteady, and Mike eyes him, one eyebrow going up, and his fingers pluck a question using minor chords. 

Jeff drops down, straddles his hips, one knee to either side. He swallows – burn of alcohol in his throat, and he crowds against Mike, offering. 

Mike smiles. Jeff can see the flash of tongue between teeth. He pours with a careful, slow hand, but it runs across Mike's chin anyway, into his beard, his lips turning up. Jeff's leans down – 

“The guitar, man. Watch the guitar – " 

Mike slides it to the side and Jeff sucks the corner of his mouth, catching cheap read wine edging towards vinegar and salt and skin. Mike cups his face in both hands, pulls him in. And Jeff wants to be pulled in, wants to be so close as to crawl inside. "Write me song," Jeff says, up against his mouth. He grinds his hips down against Mike and pushes the guitar back into his hands. Mike grins up at him, lazy and sly, and strums the opening to _Sick Boy_. 

Jeff laughs. “You're such a fake punk.” 

Mike flattens the strings, cutting off the sound. “I'm a fake punk? You had safety pins in your ears when I met you.” 

“You liked it.” 

“I liked you.” 

Jeff rolls his hips against him. "Write me song.” He grabs Mike’s belt, slides his fingers down inside the waistband. “Write me a song that every time I sing it, I'll think about sucking you off.” 

Mike’s eyes are a liquid sort of dark, fixed and shining on Jeff's mouth. 

Jeff calls the song _Fake Punk_ and he half-growls the lyrics every time. It catches on in the clubs, and gets them real gigs, and for the first time in forever they actually have money for rent. 

 

* * *

 

Mike is sitting at his piano bench, in a real apartment that has real windows and light and Jeff is dizzy and dancing, or dizzy from dancing, or from the wine, none of it’s clear. What is clear is how he needs Mike near to him. He slumps against Mike on the bench, curls up into him, whispers right into his ear. “Write me a song that says you promise you’ll still love me when we’re famous.” Jeff watches Mike’s fingers wander over the keys. “Write me a song that says you’ll still love me when I’m a rock star and have a coke habit and a Ferrari and six ex-wives.” He sings the words, hums the words right into the skin of Mike’s neck. “That you’ll still love me when we have a record deal. When we sell out stadiums. When we’re the top of iTunes.” 

Mike smiles at that, his eyes closed. 

And he does. 

Jeff titles the thing _Promises_ and it gets them a following that chant his name when he swims in the crowd, a hundred outstretched hands. It gets Pitchfork to take notice, and it gets them a check from a record company that makes Mike cover his mouth say, “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.” 

 

* * *

 

Mike is in the studio, noodling on his guitar when Jeff comes in. He looks up, and then back down. 

Jeff clears his throat. “You don’t have anything to say to me?” 

Mike keeps his eyes down on the strings. 

Jeff slides his hands into his back pockets. He tries again. “You haven’t spoken to me for a month.” 

“I haven’t seen you sober for six.” 

That lodges, hard and sharp, in Jeff’s chest. “You said you’d do this with me. You said we’d do this – _all this_ – together.” 

Mike stops playing. “You’re hurting yourself. I didn’t sign up for that.” 

There’s a piece of paper in Jeff’s pocket. It takes two tries with unsteady hands to get it out, to unfold the page. “I wrote you a song.” 

Mike looks up, eyes flat and skeptical, but when Jeff holds out his hand for the guitar, he passes it over. 

Jeff sits on the other stool, curling one hand around the neck, trying to settle the body against his chest. His fingers are uncertain, and first chords come out dull and hollow. 

“Here.” Mike drags his stool closer, adjusts Jeff’s grip, fingers sliding over Jeff’s own. “Like this.” 

Jeff still hesitates, heart thumping loud in his chest, Mike watching him, careful and silent. Jeff’s fingers tighten. He clears his throat. “It’s called, ‘ _I’m sorry. I love you. Take me back_.’” 

Only two people ever hear it, but it gets Jeff everything he ever wanted. 


End file.
